The Fat of the Land eBook

MY EXCUSE

My sixtieth birthday is a thing of yesterday, and
I have, therefore, more than half descended the western
slope. I have no quarrel with life or with time,
for both have been polite to me; and I wish to give
an account of the past seven years to prove the politeness
of life, and to show how time has made amends to me
for the forced resignation of my professional ambitions.
For twenty-five years, up to 1895, I practised medicine
and surgery in a large city. I loved my profession
beyond the love of most men, and it loved me; at least,
it gave me all that a reasonable man could desire
in the way of honors and emoluments. The thought
that I should ever drop out of this attractive, satisfying
life, never seriously occurred to me, though I was
conscious of a strong and persistent force that urged
me toward the soil. By choice and by training
I was a physician, and I gloried in my work; but by
instinct I was, am, and always shall be, a farmer.
All my life I have had visions of farms with flocks
and herds, but I did not expect to realize my visions
until I came on earth a second time.

I would never have given up my profession voluntarily;
but when it gave me up, I had to accept the dismissal,
surrender my ambitions, and fall back upon my primary
instinct for diversion and happiness. The dismissal
came without warning, like the fall of a tree when
no wind shakes the forest, but it was imperative and
peremptory. The doctors (and they were among
the best in the land) said, “No more of this
kind of work for years,” and I had to accept
their verdict, though I knew that “for years”
meant forever.

My disappointment lasted longer than the acute attack;
but, thanks to the cheerful spirit of my wife, by
early summer of that year I was able to face the situation
with courage that grew as strength increased.
Fortunately we were well to do, and the loss of professional
income was not a serious matter. We were not
rich as wealth is counted nowadays; but we were more
than comfortable for ourselves and our children, though
I should never earn another dollar. This is not
the common state of the physician, who gives more
and gets less than most other men; it was simply a
happy combination of circumstances. Polly was
a small heiress when we married; I had some money
from my maternal grandfather; our income was larger
than our necessities, and our investments had been
fortunate. Fate had set no wolf to howl at our
door.

In June we decided to take to the woods, or rather
to the country, to see what it had in store for us.
The more we thought of it, the better I liked the
plan, and Polly was no less happy over it. We
talked of it morning, noon, and night, and my half-smothered
instinct grew by what it fed on. Countless schemes
at length resolved themselves into a factory farm,
which should be a source of pleasure as well as of
income. It was of all sizes, shapes, industries,